So, there was Caesar, standing with his soldiers by a stream, wondering whether or not to cross it. It was, after all, an important boundary of sorts. Crossing that stream with an army meant threatening Rome. Supposedly, an entertainer came along, and, while Caesar, looking for an omen, contemplated crossing the Rubicon, the minstrel played a flute for the troops. Then, seeing a trumpet of one of the soldiers, the entertainer picked it up, started to play, and, as he did, walked across the little bridge. Caesar interpreted the entertainer’s crossing as a sign from the gods and said, “The die is cast.” He signaled his men to march toward Rome. As it turned out, the crossing worked in Caesar’s favor. Pompey and other Romans that opposed Caesar fled the city, and Caesar became Rome’s ruler.
Everything went well for Julius until the Ides of March, 44 BCE, when Brutus and others stabbed him to death. Such is the ending of many who cast a die or crossed a Rubicon. Caesar’s casting the die of fate and crossing the Rubicon played out on the stage of a great empire.
You are probably not an emperor or empress, but you have cast dice and crossed Rubicons. In most instances, you probably made good decisions, but occasionally, just as you cast the die, you probably said, “Oh!” Or, having crossed a Rubicon, you probably cast not a die, but backward glance of regret.
There’s nothing wrong with second guessing yourself, nothing wrong with casting some doubt on your decisions. Merely thinking about a decision doesn’t mean the decision was wrong. Yes, your universe prevents you from reliving the past and undoing decisions, but it doesn’t prevent you from altering the course of a decision. Every Rubicon lies just a step away from a second, a third, a fourth Rubicon. We live lives of constant decisions, each one capable of altering the effect of an earlier one.
So, cast a die and cross a Rubicon. But do both with the knowledge that every decision precipitates an ensuing decision. Even a “bad” decision might be alterable by the ineluctable ensuing decision, a second or third stream to cross, another die to cast.
Everything went well for Julius until the Ides of March, 44 BCE, when Brutus and others stabbed him to death. Such is the ending of many who cast a die or crossed a Rubicon. Caesar’s casting the die of fate and crossing the Rubicon played out on the stage of a great empire.
You are probably not an emperor or empress, but you have cast dice and crossed Rubicons. In most instances, you probably made good decisions, but occasionally, just as you cast the die, you probably said, “Oh!” Or, having crossed a Rubicon, you probably cast not a die, but backward glance of regret.
There’s nothing wrong with second guessing yourself, nothing wrong with casting some doubt on your decisions. Merely thinking about a decision doesn’t mean the decision was wrong. Yes, your universe prevents you from reliving the past and undoing decisions, but it doesn’t prevent you from altering the course of a decision. Every Rubicon lies just a step away from a second, a third, a fourth Rubicon. We live lives of constant decisions, each one capable of altering the effect of an earlier one.
So, cast a die and cross a Rubicon. But do both with the knowledge that every decision precipitates an ensuing decision. Even a “bad” decision might be alterable by the ineluctable ensuing decision, a second or third stream to cross, another die to cast.
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